


He Who Gets The Last Laugh

by agoodtuckering



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Gotham's gone to shit, Halloween, I'm batjokes trash, I'm such batjokes trash, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Sorry Not Sorry, Unhealthy Relationships, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 14:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16019723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agoodtuckering/pseuds/agoodtuckering
Summary: The beginning of the infection.





	He Who Gets The Last Laugh

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [He Who Gets The Last Laugh （中文版）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16075208) by [Raven_of_Silence_has_already_been_taken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raven_of_Silence_has_already_been_taken/pseuds/Raven_of_Silence_has_already_been_taken)



> This was written a while ago for a Batjokes RP story but I'm posting it here too. Enjoy it, my bonkers followers.

_< File 34:_  
_Joker/Jack White/Unknown Name;_  
_Patient Num. 46;_  
_Sept. 6, 2012 >_  
  
_Notes: 6th therapy session. Patient is utterly unpredictable. Mumbles constantly about Batman. Wants to play mind games with staff here at Arkham. Enjoys card games and simple card tricks. Tried to throw a chair at Oswald Cobblepot (Inmate Num. 52) the previous day, still mad and talking about the incident. Keeps mumbling something about a “bad day” but won’t say much else._

* * *

  
And really, isn’t that where everything begins? With a bad day?   
  
Today, today was going to be _another_  bad day.   
  
It had all started off so  _normally_ for the jester. He’d woken up in his private apartment in his Funhouse hideout, showered, ate, made a few calls, thought about how funny it would be to rob the bank Commissioner Gordon preferred to use often — especially if he happened to be there while everything was going down. Of course, that is... Things had changed so much since he’d lost his dear Harley. He’d toned down his fun. Less schemes, less plotting. But, /he/ was still alive. Life went on.  
  
And besides, he had Bats. Harley was gone, and he missed her more than anything, but at least he still had _something_. He had his Bat. His Dark Knight. His Batman.  
  
But the day only got worse.  
  
“Boss!” someone called to him from behind the door to his third story apartment. “Boss, everyone’s fuckin’ goin’ nuts! Come take a look, wouldja? We’re leavin’! Gotta get outta here. Come with us.”   
  
Then his goons went a bit wacky. The day went downhill so very quickly.   
  
It was only in Gotham. That’s what they said in the News. The broadcasters said it was a strain of something. A medical crisis of some sort. It turned people into monsters. Not the normal _brain-eating zombies,_ but actual monsters. They didn’t crave flesh, but they groaned and walked around mindlessly. It was painful to look at.  
  
Their flesh looked as if it had melted away. The air was disgusting. Putrid. They staggered and bumped into things. They looked utterly mindless and _dead._  
  
And it wasn’t _funny._  
  
Joker hated it. The first thing he’d done, when he realized what was beginning to happen, on impulse, was grab a gas-mask and save himself. His goons weren’t fast enough. They hadn’t known what to do. And he was leaving the Funhouse, the only one left alive, before long. Not that he cared all that much about their lives to begin with.  
  
“Have to find Bats,” he told himself. Because, really, his Brucie would know what to do. He just wanted to save himself. Well — and his Bat, too. No one else really mattered. He stuck his neck out for nobody, just as Rick Blaine had once said.   
  
But he needed to get Batsy’s attention first.  
  
Something flashy would do. Somewhere the both of them couldn’t be touched. Somewhere safer than his _safehouse._ And the trip to Wayne Manor would be far too dangerous as well. He _knew_  Bats’ house was safe and secure. Untouched. Intuition told him so. The cave would be safe, too. Of course it would. Bats’ had so much security. He always had.  
  
Instead, knowing Batman would certainly be on the prowl to gather evidence and find out _just what was going on_  today, he waited. He found himself at Gotham City’s bridge with maniacal grin and a head full of ideas. He found a bucket truck, bright orange, lights flashing, and surrounded by construction equipment. Electrical equipment, rather. They must have been working on a few of the street-lamps that went along the bridge. One was being worked on. Traffic cones surrounded it, closing one of the bridge's lanes.  
  
"Weeee..." He knocked over the wobbling undead, taking them out like a pro with his Louisville Slugger baseball bat and a rusty crowbar — a weapon for each hand, both of which he'd found on his journey across Gotham during that day. He swung _hard._  It was messy. Lots of blood too, not that he cared. He was too busy laughing.  
  
Up to the top he began climbing, to the top of the bucket on the construction truck, unafraid of heights and humming Strangers In The Night as he went. Good ol’ Frankie. Always reminds him of Bats. He couldn’t help himself. He began to sing, hurrying up the ladder as he went. “Da da dadada... Strangers in the night, exchanging glances, wondering in the night.”   
  
There was a man at the top, just a construction worker who’d probably been working away when the infection spread. He was groaning and swaying on his feet in the bucket. A hand was on the rusted railing. Joker knew it before he’d even turned around. He was a _zombie._  One of the undead, as everyone on the News channels had called them. There were tools at his feet, a belt lying there. The walkie-talkie had fallen and broken a few of its buttons. The line was all static, a nauseating background noise.  
  
As Joker sang, he wandered over and beaned the zombie with the baseball bat he’d brought along with him. Right on the noggin too, sending the creature — no longer among the living now — falling from the edge of the bucket and from the bridge to land in the water far, far below. “Something in your eyes was so inviting,” J hummed, “Something in your smile was so exciting. Something in my heart told me I must have you.”   
  
He picked up the leather tool-belt the man must have dropped, draping it around his bony hips and closing the clasp on the buckle. Never know when you might need some weapons. He had an assortment of tools to work with now. Went well with the outfit he had on, too. Nothing special, just a mechanic's uniform that he'd grabbed back at the Funhouse, knowing things would _get a bit messy_ with all the blood from the wandering, dangerous undead.  
  
He must have stayed up there for hours. It felt like hours, anyway. He lit flares, using up as many as possible, and left them lit until they slowly died. Hopefully that would be enough to catch ol’ Batsy’s attention during the day, even though nightfall hadn’t come yet. He even tried to fiddle with the broken walkie-talkie. He eventually came down again, hanging onto the railing at the side of the bridge and watching the water. Then he lost himself to his thoughts.  
  
So much time had passed since he’d been in Arkham, since he’d first met the Bat, since he’d learned the man’s identity. Years had passed. Ages. And so much had changed.   
  
Just months prior, before losing Harley, he’d saved his Bat on the rooftop of his Funhouse on Mischief Night. He’d caught Bats’ and saved his sorry, miserable life. Because who would the Clown Prince of Crime, the Harlequin of Hate be without his Dark Knight of Gotham? He would be lost. That’s what.   
  
He’d be nobody. He’d be a shell of the man he once was, in his height, his prime, the beloved years spent as the Ace of Knaves. He’d be no one without Batman.  
  
But none of this was funny. It wasn’t just some big joke he’d played on Gotham with a toxin or a strain of a virus, airborne. None of this was his own fault, and he hoped Batman _knew_  that.  
  
He listened to his phone radio, wondering what the _fuck_  was going on. Apparently, whatever it was, was now gone from the air. He was able to tug his gas-mask from his face. Rather bravely, he might add. But those who were infected... They were killing themselves, others, the uninfected. It was the end of everything, wasn’t it? Fucking awful.  
  
A zombie apocalypse was happening right down in little ol’ Gotham. At least it hadn’t spread world-wide, or even nation-wide.  
  
According to authorities, it was confined to the city of Gotham. The government had shut it right down, whatever it was, and only Gotham was being affected. Which, unfortunately, told Mister J it was something that _the government_  had done wrong. Some sort of testing. Some chemical, maybe. And perhaps it got out by accident. It killed nearly everyone in the city.  
  
He wondered who was safe? With his luck, probably all of his enemies were _fine._  Penguin, Dr. Freeze, the Riddler... They were probably all safer in Arkham right now. The Asylum had its own air filtration system, anyway. They were _definitely_  safe.  
  
There was music playing on his phone as he sat there, swinging his scuffed shoes over the ledge of the bridge, mechanic jacket draped over his bony shoulders. The voice of Nat King Cole serenaded him and filled the silence. Even as he _knew_  Batman was wandering towards him, he stayed silent.   
  
He’d found him. He _knew_  he would.  
  
Bats had become so predictable over the years, hadn’t he?  
  
And still, Nat sang on...  
  
_"... Unforgettable, that's what you are._  
_Unforgettable though near or far,_  
_Like a song of love that clings to me,_  
_How the thought of you does things to me._  
_Never before has someone been more._  
  
_Unforgettable in every way._  
_And forever more, that's how you'll stay._  
_That's why, darling, it's incredible_  
_That someone so unforgettable_  
_Thinks that I am unforgettable too._  
  
_Unforgettable in every way._  
_And forever more, that's how you'll stay._  
_That's why, darling, it's incredible_  
_That someone so unforgettable_  
_Thinks that I am unforgettable too..."_  
  
How appropriate the song felt in that moment. How perfect and unbelievable.   
  
"Hello, darling," he called to Bats, gloved hands spread wide. Then he turned to gaze out over Gotham. With his back still turned to him, he wondered aloud, “Why did _we_ survive this, Batsy? Fate’s an interesting thing, isn’t it?” He chuckled. “What a big, rotten joke.”   
  
And in the end, he laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed. Because he knew for sure that he’d have the last laugh this time. Everyone in Gotham was dying, or already deceased, and here he was with a romantic view from the bridge, with his big Bat beside him.  
  
Some things would never change.

* * *

 


End file.
